


the crushing tedium of social obligations

by Luciiferous



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Drunkenness, Fealty Kink, Multi, Polyamory, Teasing, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character, anatomically correct miqo'te genitalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-01 15:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17869595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luciiferous/pseuds/Luciiferous
Summary: a gala of eorzia's most prestigious and influential leaders, held in wineport of all places, seems like it would be anything but dull. alas, Aymeric simply isn't in the mood to mingle.his partners decide to try a carrot and stick approach to get him through the night





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> dinner and diatribes made me feral

He makes a fine figure in modern fashions. The colours and cut of the suit he's wearing all serve to accentuate a slender waist so oft hidden by Ishgardian conservatism, and as he's fastening the delicate golden cuff links that serve as stand-ins for his pauldrons, he's torn between admiring and not fully recognizing the man standing before him in the mirror.

“I feel… Always so strange when I must do this,” Aymeric admits with a sheepish smile, ducking his head away from his foreign reflection.

Az'a, ever so particular about the smallest details, immediately seizes upon his crooked tie and begins to adjust it. “I thought you enjoyed these kinds of soirées?”

“I do, to some extent. Or did. They were far less… Imposing, when only the eyes of Ishgard were upon me.” He watches Az'a's hands as they set about righting his appearance. “Now, however…”

“Your presence will draw less attention than your absence,” says the third man in the room. Estinien mumbles out his rare wisdom from behind closed teeth, trapping small wire pins between them while his fingers struggle to get even just one laying correctly in his hair. “It’s better that we're here, no matter what social faux pas we commit.”

A feline ear cocks in his direction, but Az’a’s attention is ever focused on his task. As he's smoothing down the lapels of Aymeric's jacket he asks, “do you already have some scandals in mind?”

“A few. Depends on the quality and abundance of wine.”

“And who happens to be holding the most precariously filled glass, I imagine.”

“Hmph.”

Aymeric manages a weak smile at their bantering. Despite his flagging enthusiasm, his partners never failed to elicit some joy from even the dimmest of evenings. So, emboldened by their confidence, he puts on a brave face and turns back to the mirror with the hopes that he'll see himself in a new light-- but all that remains to greet him is the uncanny visage of a commander bereft of his ornamentation, a man who's rail-thin shoulders carry a weight that far exceeds his apparent strength.

His facade falters and crumbles just as quickly as it had been erected. Wearing a defeated grin, he turns his head and admits aloud, “I really don't want to do this.”

Az'a clicks his tongue and gives him a pitying look, reaching up to pat Aymeric on his cheeks. “Come now, my Lord, it's only a single night of pleasantries. We'll have some good food, get drunk, smile and nod along with the most boring conversations we shall ever hear, and then take our leave. It's hardly strenuous.”

Aymeric sighs, reaching up to cup one of Az'a's hands with his own before leaning into his captive palm. “I… Know that, I do, I have little to complain about. It's just that I'd rather be anywhere else tonight. Neither my heart nor my mind are in the mood to play cordial with the nobility.” Shooting an inquisitive look across the room, he directs his next words towards Estinien; “and speaking of, it's a wonder that you're here at all.”

Estinien’s persistence with the hairpins has evidently payed off. Tucking the last errant strands of silver behind an ear and deeming that good enough, he rises from the vanity and replies, “I nearly escaped, but Az'a made me an offer I could hardly refuse.”

“Oh?”

It’s always uncanny when his partners seem to be of one mind; turning with perfect synchronicity, the same glimmer of mischief in their eyes, they exchange a brief but terrifying glance before Az’a puts on a soothing tone and proclaims, “if it will make this arrangement more bearable for you, we’ll tell you on the ride over.”

Aymeric quirks an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “Well, it seems that I’m going one way or the other… Sure. What do I have to lose?”

* * *

Once word of their carriage’s arrival reached them, the three Ishgardian representatives left the peace and stony solitude of The Mizzenmast Inn with varying degrees of reluctance.

Sea spray and salty winds hit Az’a’s cheek within moments of stepping outside. He so often missed the bite of La Noscea’s air, the sharp and somewhat rancid smell of the ocean and of fish being carried off the docks. In the undercurrent he can usually pick up notes of wet wood-- fishing vessels, so comforting a sight and smell to him. But this wind carries a more pressing scent; a storm, imminent and intense. Some bestial part of him has been urging him to stay in the Inn, to curl up and sleep under a warm and dry blanket; but there are obligations he must attend to, with a prize befitting them in the end.

When he looks in the direction of the wind, he can see what his instincts have already confirmed-- dark black clouds hang low and heavy to the west, rolling into port like the distended sails of some vast, shadowy fleet. It’s mesmerizing in its enormity, beautifully contrasted against the stark white of Limsa’s ancient reefs.

But all his gazing is interrupted by a chilly hand clasping the back of his neck, steering him forwards. “Nasty storm, isn’t it?” Estinien remarks. “Would be pretty unfortunate to get caught in that because of some sightseeing.”

Az’a scoffs. “Forgive me for reminiscing about my boyhood home. Ishgard's sea of clouds is a far cry from the sea proper. It's nice to visit.”

If there's a twinge of sympathy in Estinien's eyes, he’s doing an admirable job of keeping it out of his voice. “Do you miss it here?”

“On occasion. Not quite enough to ask for vacation time, if that's what you're getting at.”

Estinien quickly glances away. Hook, line and-- “you'd have to speak with our Lord about that, anyway. It's hardly my place to suggest how you spend your time.”

“Of course, of course,” Az'a says with a smile, boarding the carriage at Aymeric's heels. “It would be  _ entirely  _ unheard of for you to do such a thing.”

“Hm?” Asks Aymeric, who's small talk with the Yellow Jackets set to guard their procession has left him out of the loop. “What would be unheard of?”

“Nothing,” Estinien states, boarding last and drawing closed the curtain behind him. The carriage would perhaps be small for a party of roegadyn, but is comfortably snug for two elezen and a diminutive miqo'te. Though with all tarps drawn shut for privacy and shelter, the interior is dark, with weak sunlight barely managing to pierce through the navy-tinted fabric and dimming by the minute.

Az'a wastes little time before oh-so-casually summoning a small flame in his palm. It casts dancing shadows on the tarp walls as they begin to move, bobbing gently above uneven terrain. Despite the riders that flank them and the proximity of the carriage driver, it's blessedly quiet, and the warm glow of Az'a's fire brings a sense of coziness to the space.

He and Estinien sit across from Aymeric, a distance which is appropriate for their official ranks, but that doesn't last long. Careful not to let the flame too close to either the wooden benches nor the ropes and tarps above, Az'a glides smoothly across the space between them, settling in at the crook of Aymeric's arm. When his Lord turns to look at him, he takes advantage of that movement to catch his lips with his own, using his free hand to trace the elegant cut of his jaw.

Aymeric’s ears perk with his surprise, but he's certainly not about to complain. He lets Az'a kiss him softly, slowly, allowing their lips linger upon one another until he feels Estinien’s bony fingers raking through his hair. He breaks away then with a small gasp and asks, “what…?”

“Remember that deal I made with Estinien?” Az'a asks softly, tone low enough not to rouse attention. “Would you still like to hear it?”

“Y-es,” Aymeric whispers back haltingly, knowing now what kind of bargains this deal must have included. He's not sure where to divide his attention between Az'a's enthralling voice and Estinien’s lips on the back of his neck. A shiver runs through him with the knowledge of how close they are to creating a scandal, should someone only think to check inside the body of the carriage.

Az'a smiles, his fangs catching the light of the flame. His free hand trails the tip of one deadly claw down the length of Aymeric's neck and stops just above his neatly-buttoned collar, which now feels entirely too tight. “When we return from this dreadful affair, I intend to take the both of you straight back to my room in the Inn,” he states, and waits to gauge Aymeric's interest before continuing further.

And though it's hard for him to speak around the catch in his throat, he manages a quiet, “then…?”

Estinien chuckles quietly, the puff of his breath tickling the back of Aymeric's ear. “Az'a managed to bring a bottle of araq and some… supplies, in his bags. We'll make good use of both.”

Aymeric is about to speak, to perhaps voice his delight at their thoughtfulness, but is stopped by a warm and sandpapery tongue licking the corner of his mouth. Soon Az'a greedily steals his lips and voice again, a low purr rumbling from his chest and into Aymeric’s. He's helpless to do little more than listen while Estinien carries on.

“We shall free ourselves from these suffocating garments and dim low the lights, lay you out on borrowed sheets to take our time with you, drinking well of spirits and salacity besides--” Aymeric makes a small noise, muffled and strained. “And neither shall we stop until our energy is well and truly spent, until you are scarcely able to wake the next morning without the glaze of bliss still in your eyes.”

Az’a frees him only for Estinien to take his place, moving then to graze his fangs along the skin of Aymeric’s craning neck. His tail thrashes happily behind him. “We intend to treat you with all the due reverence our Lord deserves, all the acclaim and admiration those countless lusting eyes at this gala would no doubt give an arm or leg to shower you with in our stead.”

It’s a bit hard to parse their poetics with Aymeric’s mind still swimming from their heady touches, his thoughts little more than a tingling current of warmth and the ever-looming fear that prying eyes would spot them in such an intimate moment. But once Az’a’s words reach him in full, he pulls away gently to ask, “are you… Perhaps jealous?”

“Only so much that you seem unaware of their advances, and yet they still have the gall to push their flirting onto you.” Az'a's eyes are sharp and intense, peering up at him beneath long lashes like a wildcat through the underbrush. “Our relationship may be the most poorly kept secret in all of Eorzia, but we at least have the decency to put up a convincing front and not salivate at the sight of you.”

“Ah… I see.”

His adviser then shrugs, a smooth roll of his shoulders as he tips his head to the side and proclaims, “I suppose you could say that our method of coping with that is to fuck you so thoroughly that all traces of them are purged from your memory.”

“A… Aha,” Aymeric stammers, a nervous grin plastered on his reddening face. He can feel his ears and cheeks beginning to burn, blood rushing so quickly to his ears that they start to ring. He’s at a loss for words-- but can’t seem to stop himself from babbling. “That’s, um-- I certainly don’t, I-I mean I would love, I, no…”

Az’a’s eyes flicker up to meet Estinien’s, the two sharing twin smiles at Aymeric’s expense. While Az'a resumes his gentle ministrations upon Aymeric's throat, Estinien presses his lips to his temple and slides a hand along his upper thigh. Muscles clench in excitement beneath finely-tailored fabrics; he hopes this won't dishevel any of their appearances too much.

“We thought you would appreciate this,” Estinien says lowly. His fingertips skim dangerously close to the tent in his Lord’s trousers; not near enough to touch, but just the right distance to tease. “Though I do wish we could've kept it a surprise.”

“I actually think this will be more fun,” Az'a replies. “Consider it an incentive to get through the night. Provided, of course, that you still can.”

So that's his gambit-- a test of wills. Az'a and Estinien play these sorts of games all the time, testing each other's endurance, seeing how long and how far they can push a wager until one of them inevitably cracks and admits defeat. They rarely included Aymeric, not because of any aversion to his participation but because of his already staggering duties as Lord Speaker. Far be it for them to burden him with even more to think about. But oft has he wished for just such an occasion, for the chance to partake in their games with the full knowledge of what awaits him on the other side, should he claim victory.

His tongue feels clumsy when he tries to speak, but with some effort he manages to say, “I’ll-- Take that wager.”

And answering as if with one mind, his partners reply, “good.”

If not for Az’a’s superior senses, they likely would’ve missed the carriage coming to a halt. With the twitching of his ears he scuttles quickly back to his side of the benches, Estinien pulling away shortly after. It happens so abruptly that Aymeric barely has time to recognize what’s going on, still longing for their touch even as the tarp covering the exit is sharply drawn open, flooding the carriage with cold light and colder air. All the colour drains from his face in an instant.

Luckily, it seems that the rain-speckled Yellow Jacket who has come to fetch them neither notices nor cares. She proclaims, “Wineport, sirs. When you’re ready,” before letting the tarp fall shut again and vanishing as quickly as she appeared. Az’a has already extinguished his flame in all the commotion, leaving the body of the carriage dark and quiet once more.

“Ready?” Estinien asks, no longer bothering to quiet his voice.

Aymeric has to clear his throat before he can speak without his words wavering; “of course.”


	2. II

“Ser Aymeric! ‘Tis rare to see such a man of handsome mien without company by his side.”

The Lord Commander licks his lips and tastes sweet wine. It’s rare for him to travel this far south, even after so long in the Eorzian Alliance. Wineport and all its indulgences were proving harder to abstain from than he had assumed. With the evening hours now at hand and the chilly air of restrained formality long since melted away by the warm buzz of alcohol, guildmasters and politicians were beginning to let loose their bridled tongues.

Some clearly more-so than others.

“My Lord?” Serendipity of Eshtaime's Lapidaries asks again, leaning in to try and catch Aymeric’s far-afield attention. 

He startles a bit, pulled back from his hazy musings (though of what, he no longer remembers). “Oh-- hello, Mademoiselle Sera. My apologies, my mind was elsewhere.”

The young guildmaster giggles a little, her cheeks flushed with a tipsy shade of pink. “No worries! I’ve been there many a time, myself. I was only surprised at your lack of an entourage, and if you,” she pauses for a moment, averting her gaze shyly. “Are want for some company?”

Of all the masters and Lords and so forth at the gala, Serendipity was hardly the worst companion in the room. “But of course,” Aymeric replies pleasantly, swirling his modestly filled glass of Bacchus. “Far be it from me to deny the companionship of such a skilled Mistress.”

When she giggles again, he begins to suspect the red on her cheeks is more than just the flush of wine.

“Ah, as for my colleagues…” He had lost track of Az’a long ago, though experience has taught him that he’s likely in the center of the most densely-packed swell. The man seems to thrive on attention; or rather, on the high he gets from twisting and manipulating it. Any chance to test his silver tongue is one he will leap at. In stark contrast, Estinien’s demeanor suggests he’s less of a guest and more of a restless spirit that died in the building several moons ago and would rather everyone just leave. Aymeric can see the halo of his white hair reflecting lamplight into the corner he’s secluded himself in, an unwilling beacon for those too drunk to remember their caution.

“They seem to be enjoying themselves elsewhere at present.”

“Is Lady Lucia not with you tonight?”

“She isn’t, no, she’s overseeing the House of Lords in my stead.” Az’a had raised the point to him ages ago that it seemed  _ unwise  _ for both acting Commanders to be away from the See at the same time. As his ever loyal second-in-command, Lucia was quick to volunteer as his stand in whenever the need should arise. (Though in hindsight, her eagerness may have been enkindled not only by her loyalty, but by the threat of Az’a snapping up the position should she delay.)

For a brief moment, something like disappointment flashed across Serendipity’s face. “Ah, a shame,” she laments before seemingly catching herself and brightening once more. “Well, that gives me all the more reason to accompany you! Forgive me for speaking out of line, but you seem a tad lost on your own here, m’lord. You've scarcely moved from the entryway.”

Aymeric blinks, finding himself unable to deny the accusation. “I. Well, I…”

Serendipity surreptitiously slips a gloved hand under Aymeric's arm, attempting to ease him into the crowd. “Shall I introduce you to my fellow guildmasters? Surely you must already know--”

“S-Sera,” Aymeric stutters ungracefully, stopping just short of digging his heels in. “Wait just a moment!”

Her large, questioning eyes turn to him then, but it's far too late. His struggles have caught the attention of Estinien, and their eyes lock from across the room. The former dragoon smirks-- crosses his arms and tilts his chin up. A wordless challenge, a ‘you sure you’re up for this?’; the very selfsame look he's seen on the battlefield countless times.

His own eyes narrow, a wry smile tugging at his lips. He’s down.

Then, remembering his place and who else is watching, he startles back to his senses. “My-- My apologies, again, I… Please, continue.”

“Are you certain you’re feeling alright, m’lord?”

( _ \--so thoroughly that all traces of them are purged from your memory. _ )  “Certainly. Absolutely. I’m... Yes.”

Serendipity makes no attempt to conceal her doubt, but shrugs nonetheless. “If you’re certain... Oh, H'naanza, Mylla! Have you had the pleasure of meeting Ser Aymeric?”

The mention of his name seems to have caught Az’a’s ears. Aymeric can just barely see the tufted tip of one swivel in his direction. Soon after, his adviser's handsome face peers out between the throngs of his beguiled audience, a delighted smile playing on his lips and in the glimmer of his eyes. But, so short as he is, his vision is eclipsed again ere long.

It takes some effort for Aymeric not to chuckle-- he knows how frustrated Az’a must be, having to entertain the crowd he’s captured instead of keeping an eye on him. But if this is to be the game, he must play fair, too. Let him catch snippets of his voice and glances of his figure from betwixt the arms of others; let him wonder what he’s thinking, how he’s fairing, and if he’s leaning into inviting their jealousy.

‘Tis only a shame that Aymeric’s such a poor conversationalist when the thought of their promises are twisting his tongue.

* * *

 

It’s hard to tell whether the sun had set first or the storm merely blotted out what little light was left, but whichever the case, the night and its promised tempest have both arrived in en masse. Windows were shuttered against the gales but little can be done for the roaring and pounding of rain upon the bowed roof. Some partiers had been wise enough to retire at the first signs of foul weather, others waited until now to take their leave, but a good few still remain-- the Ishgardians among them.

Aymeric leans his elbow heavily on a parked serving cart, pouring another glass of Lowland White for Estinien. (The servers who are scattered amongst the room’s perimeter politely avert their eyes.)

“How the  _ Hell  _ do you think he does it?”

Estinien shrugs, raises his slightly-overflowing glass to his lips and drains no less than half before replying, “I have no idea.”

Both their gazes are focused upon the center of the room, where Az’a has since taken to sitting atop a table. He’s still talking, weaving conversations with sometimes two, three topics being juggled seamlessly at a time. To untrained eyes and ears-- much less intoxicated ones-- he would seem just as composed as he was at the start of the evening; but his partners can recognise the slight bite to his words, the acerbic edge in his tone which implies he may be losing his grip on civility. Should this go on much longer, he may even begin speaking from the heart-- a truly dangerous prospect.

“Should you fetch him, or shall I?” Aymeric asks.

Estinien’s glass is empty again; he sits it on the serving cart and peels himself away. “I’ll do it. Chances are, I’ll be needing to carry both of you to the carriage anyway.”

“I can walk just fine.”

He’s met with a smug, skeptical look. “Really? Try it.”

It isn’t until Aymeric actually considers moving that he realizes how dreadful the concept seems. He barely straightens himself upright before his senses turn on him, his balance tipping ceaselessly to one side like a weighted die. If not for prior experience with just this situation, and stakes far higher than his partner’s impression of his sobriety, he would not have managed to make his fall against the wall look anything less than an intentional lean. The save was suave, even, if he may be so bold to judge.

Though the twitch of Estinien’s lips makes him doubt his own performance. “Right. You stay there, then.”

His inclination to pout implies far more than his lack of balance. “Maybe I shall. But it’s of my own volition, mind you.”

“Of course it is.”

Estinien weaves through what remaining guests there are until he’s within arm’s reach of Az'a. Closer now, he can see the way he sways slightly when he gestures, his tail slapping against the wood of the table. Estinien taps him on the shoulder and Az'a, once realizing who is behind him, all but falls backwards against his chest.

“Jeegaram!” He exclaims happily.

Estinien hopes that no one within earshot is familiar enough with Abanian to understand what he just said. But then again, it wouldn’t be the first time Az’a has used such terms of endearment in public, inebriated or no.

“Hi,” he replies, moving a hand to Az’a’s waist in order to steady him. To his collection of conversational partners, he says “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid I have to steal this. The Lord Speaker’s carriage is to be departing soon and we need our adviser with us.”

A grumble of discontented protests answer him, but slowly and with some gracious farewells, the crowd finally begins to disperse. Az’a doesn’t seem in any way inclined to move, though-- reclining against Estinien as though he were the back of a chair, clasping hands with his former guild employers, making vows to keep in touch.

Estinien drops his head to Az’a’s shoulder once the last of his hangers-on leave them. “Can you walk, or should I carry you?”

“I’d prefer the latter.” When Az'a tilts his head, his beard scrapes against Estinien’s pinned-back hair and pulls loose some wispy strands. So much for subtlety.

“It’ll look pretty bad if both the Lord Speaker  _ and  _ his adviser are too blasted to retire with grace.”

“Hm…” Az’a sighs and pries himself away as if its an arduous task. “Is he truly so out of it?”

“See for yourself. I think he’s had more than the both of us combined.”

Descending from the table without assistance, Az’a already proves himself markedly more capable of getting around than Aymeric is. And after spying him still leaning against the wall, raising a hand to wave and wearing this silly-looking, self-satisfied smile, he quirks an eyebrow. “I’ve never known him to get properly drunk at these sorts of things.”

“Maybe our promises played a role in that. Drink to forget, and all.”

A chuckle. “Oh, really?”

“‘Tis my only guess. But then again, I’m not in the habit of going to these things. You’d know his proclivities better than I.”

Directing his questioning look at him instead, Az'a asks, “And how much have  _ you  _ had? You’re surprisingly eloquent, is all.”

Hushed laughter answers him, with Estinien's hand finding its way back to his waist as they go to retrieve their Lord. “Only a glass or two. I’ve been spoiled by Gnathic wine and your araq. Little else can hold a candle to that now.”

“Don't let old Byrglaent hear that…” Az'a warns.

After reuniting the two, Estinien makes a quick detour to let their carriage driver know of their plans-- which are more than fine by him, as the storm is worrying the birds something fierce. Assured that it would take mere moments to have everything set and ready, he returns to guide his more affable partners out of the venue with as few detours as possible; doing his best to scare away any would-be distractions as Aymeric thanks the hosts graciously and Az’a steals a few last sips of wine from an unattended glass.

Of course, getting  _ into  _ the carriage presents its own issues as well. Having to support Aymeric slows them down but even Az’a, who’s free to scamper between shelters quickly as he can, doesn’t fare any better when it comes to getting soaked. The storm is ruthless, and their procession wastes no time dallying once everyone is aboard, hurrying swiftly back to Limsa.

Estinien helps Aymeric to his seat before rummaging blindly for a lantern-- he doesn’t trust Az’a with his magic right now and, considering how he hasn’t summoned a flame already, he suspects he doesn’t either. Luckily it isn’t too difficult to find. Its weak fire crystals activate at his touch, and though less bright than Az’a’s flames, they serve their purpose.

No sooner than when he sits again does Aymeric slump against him. He smiles, raking a hand through his dark, soaking hair and trying to ignore the impulse to rip out the pins and ties that litter his own.

“Tired?” He asks.

“Only a little,” Aymeric replies. “Mostly just-- dizzy. But I think the rain helped a bit.”

“I'd imagine.”

“I don't believe either of us had expected you to drink so much,” Az'a adds from the opposite bench, watching their every move with hazy adoration in his eyes. “It's lucky we didn't bet a wager on that.”

Aymeric chuckles. “I had to. It was the only way I could take my mind off of… Well, you know.”

“Indeed we do,” Az’a purrs. “And you made it through the night after all, no major incidents or calling it early. Colour me impressed.”

“T… Thank you.”

“I believe he’s sufficiently earned his prize, hasn’t he?”

Estinien hums in agreement, still working his fingers through Aymeric's locks. Though less exciting, their return journey still feels as if isn’t nearly long enough-- the heavy patter of rain closes them off from the world, affording them moment of complete peace and comfort, a space outside of time itself. Aymeric spends much of it falling in and out of sleep; waking in waves to Estinien’s gentle voice, to Az'a’s purring, the clap of thunder. Then, finally, the bustle of Limsa pulls him from that blissful daze as they arrive at port.

His head is still groggy when he rises and rubs his eyes. But his balance seems much improved, able to keep his poise long enough to exit the carriage and make the long trek from bridge to Inn. Exchanging words with the innkeep and the Yellow Jackets as if on autopilot, he’s not quite sure how he negotiates their egress out of the public eye and back to the blessed silence of their private chambers, but before he knows it he’s standing outside his door with Az’a’s hand on his chest, stopping him from following any further.

“Hold it,” he commands. “You should change before those wrinkles set in any deeper. Besides, you must be freezing.”

Only now does he realize the chill that’s crept into his bones. Even though the worst of La Noscea’s storms were temperate compared to Ishgard, rain is not so forgiving as snow, and its irritating dampness was quick to seep in through his many layers. It’s probably a good thing that the warm detachment of alcohol kept him from noticing beforehand.

Making plans to regroup in Az’a’s bedchambers once dry and prepared, all three men retreat to their own rooms; and once his door is shut, Aymeric realizes just how empty the space feels. How strange it seems that he had once been so accustomed to this, to sleeping and waking alone, to the stillness and silence of naught but his own presence. So much has changed in such a short time. But the thrill of rejoining his missing partners is enough to pull him away from his musings-- and he needs all his mindfulness to fight against the wine still drowning his senses.

Once his clothes are shed, hung to dry and replaced by a simple robe, he reaches for the door before having a moment of foresight-- deciding instead that taking an extra minute to relieve himself of the wine that’s already moved through his system would be a good idea. It delays him slightly, but it's a necessary sacrifice-- he even feels a little more sober.

At last ready to make his way down the hall, he soon hears a faint, rhythmic chanting emitting from Az'a's room.

“Rock, paper, scissors--”

“Damn it!”

“Hah.”

“Again!”

Creaking open the door slowly to get a look at what they're doing doesn't answer much. Of course the game is familiar, but why his partners are playing it now is completely lost on him.

Estinien wears a grin which implies his resolute victory. His palms are pressed flat against each other; paper. “If you wanted to top first, you could just--”

Az'a’s ears are pinned back, fur slightly raised. His closed fist upon his palm is evidence enough of his loss. “It's not about that, it's about winning!”

Estinien bursts into laughter.

“I  _ know  _ you're cheating!”

“How could I be cheating?” 

Az'a's eyes narrow. “I’m not… Sure, but you won the last four rounds straight, so--”

Finally deciding to speak up and announce his return, Aymeric asks, “what in the world are you two doing?”

They both turn quickly to look at him, obvious that they've only just now realized he's been watching. Az'a drops his hands and the argument, though not without instructing Estinien to “Put a pin in this. We'll come back to it later.”

“If you insist.”

Aymeric steps inside, shuts and bolts the door before taking a look around. Though identical in layout to his own, various tools and toys have been arranged in neat rows upon Az’a's sheets, a familiar black chest laying open and gutted at the foot of the bed. Three bottles of araq sit on the coffee table. True to his word, the room is blessedly dim; and while black clouds curtain the world outside, rain slaps against the enormous back window in a steady rolling timpani. It seems that the storm is to last all night.

Estinien appears to have opted for a simple tunic and trousers, while Az'a himself is still in the process of undressing.

Pulling the heft of his long mane over one bare shoulder, he announces, “well-- ill gotten or not, your prize has arrived. And while you two entertain each other, I’m going to take a shower.”

“You’re still upset about that?” Estinien teases. “It’s only rain, Az’a. I thought those stories of water melting witches were only children’s tales.”

“If water was the poison, the cure wouldn’t be  _ more _ … But rainwater does not play nicely with my fur. I can’t shake that dampness as easily as you.”

Sympathetic, Estinien turns his smirk into a smile, leaning down to press a kiss upon Az'a's forehead. “Take your time. We have all night.”

Once Az'a departs purring, Estinien is quick to turn his attention to the araq he's been craving. Pouring a glass for himself, he motions to the bed and it's menagerie of toys.

“Care to help me sort through them? He brought the damn arsenal, there's no way we're going to use everything.”

While it certainly isn't  _ every  _ device they own, it's still a considerable amount. Enough to say that he has his pick of the feast. Seeing them all lined up like this is both equal parts exciting and humiliating; their depravity on display, neatly organized by category, use and size.

Aymeric reaches for a carved dragon fang, its bite ground down and dulled into a smooth head. He knows it to be Estinien's favourite. “He was certainly thorough, but I don't believe I have want for more than your simple company tonight.”

“Hmm.” Estinien sounds thoughtful, pouring himself another glass full of spirits before joining Aymeric at his side. He takes the false cock from his hands and muses “The gala tired you out, didn't it?”

“I'm sorry, I should not have drank so--”

“Hush, there's no reason to worry. We promised to treat you, so we can do as much or as little as you'd like.”

Though that clause was always in effect, it's nice to be reminded. Aymeric has, and has always had, the final say on nights when he is on the receiving end of their combined affections. Smiling, he turns and cups Estinien's cheek, kissing him sweetly before stealing what's left of his liquor and tipping it back in one fell swig.

Ignoring the glare he feels might burn a hole into the side of his head, he picks up a well-worn leather harness and pretends to inspect its rivets.

“Perhaps I shall wake to more exciting things as the night goes on.”

Trading one stolen item for another-- phallus for glass-- Estinien growls a “Certainly seems that way,” before stalking off to undress.

Aymeric makes quick work of sorting out their toys in the meantime, creating a far less tidy pile on the nightstand of what seems viable and tossing what doesn't back into the box with only slightly more care. He puts away the more esoteric devices-- whips and collars and rings, the like-- keeping only what he would deem essential.

When Estinien rejoins him, he hands over the harness before falling back on the bed, melting into the sheets and pillows as if he were boneless. He hears the sounds of buckles and straps being tightened; then the bed dips with Estinien's weight and, eyes closed, Aymeric can't stop himself from smiling.

A gentle kiss is pressed to his cheek, wispy hair tickling his face. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

He feels Estinien's grin as kisses trail down his neck, icy hands sliding open the fold of his robe with care. Blind, his skin prickles with anticipation-- knowing to expect his lover’s firm touch caressing his chest, groaning aloud when that trust is rewarded. He lets his head lull to the side, heavy, his hands clutching pillows and sheets. It’s heavenly.

“Bite me,” he commands.

And with his mouth just below Aymeric’s collarbone, Estinien obliges.

The sweet sting of pain is a perfect accompaniment to his languid repose. He jolts, hisses and then sighs, bringing up a hand to comb through Estinien's hair. Cracking open one eye grants him with a vision of winter; pale hair falling over tanned shoulders like a river frozen over rocks, bed sheets crisp and white like unbroken snow. Despite Az’a’s best attempts at darkening the room, it’s bright-- so bright, and so divine.

Estinien continues his path downwards, locking eyes with Aymeric until he’s reached the dip of his hip bones, the crease of his thighs. His cock jumps a bit, impatient, still covered by a flap of silk.

“What shall it be?” Estinien asks.

Aymeric preferred, most nights, to beg-- to plea and whine and have the burden of decisions taken from him if only for a few blessed hours. But the reverse is not so objectionable either. He spares a glance at the oil decanter sitting just out of arm’s reach and decides that it’s not worth stretching for.

“Your fingers,” he commands anyway, knowing Estinien will make due. And when he hears him spitting into his palm, the thrill that runs through him is worth the slight burn as he’s worked open.

Estinien starts with two digits, as he knows Aymeric likes, his free hand alternating between holding open his thighs and massaging the base of his cock. With it still covered by that last damnable scrap of dignity, Estinien teases kisses along its length, fingers pressing up and in at just the right angle for Aymeric to keen aloud.

Practice has made it easy to unravel him. Estinien knows just how and where to apply pressure, to twist or curl his fingers, and soon he’s prepared for a third. Pulling away the fabric at last, he tries to smother what discomfort may come by taking the head of his member into his mouth, humming with laughter as he hears a sharp intake of breath. The hand still tangled in his hair tugs roughly at his roots-- and he responds with the gentlest of warnings, letting his teeth graze flesh every so slightly. Aymeric’s hips only pitch upwards.

Unfortunately they can go no further without the oil. And after a time, Estinien has no choice but to pull himself away and fetch it, abandoning his place between Aymeric’s thighs. But his Lord’s eyes are upon him all the while, pupils hungry and wide, drinking in the sight of Estinien tipping the decanter into his palm and slicking his prosthetic member.

The sheen of oil brings out the finer details of its craftsmanship. Scenes of dragons in flight wrap around its body, bordered by knotted ropes and interlocking patterns; it's a masterpiece. So much so that Az'a frequently laments having not made it himself.

“See something you like?” Estinien asks.

Startled by his own wanton staring, Aymeric’s cheeks flush pink. “Yes,” he admits.

Estinien smiles when he leans down to kiss him and it’s not long before he resumes crouching above him, one knee pressing against his cock, keeping his legs splayed open. Aymeric makes a small noise of approval and rocks against the pressure-- one hand returns to cradling the back of Estinien’s head while the other quests along his body, palm catching and skipping over countless scars.

His wrist is caught-- then released after a tense pause.

“Is this alright?” Aymeric asks.

“... Yes,” Estinien confirms at length, ducking his head to where Aymeric can no longer meet his eyes. But his voice is clear and honest as he explains, “I’m fine, I was only surprised.”

His body is as lean and strong as it is mangled. Nets of scar tissue erupt across his skin, turning much of his torso into a blasted heap of taught and knitted flesh. But Aymeric is pleased to not see any fresh wounds added to his collection. Returning to finish what he had started, his touch is gentler this time-- not so cautious or halting as to insult Estinien with thoughts of pity, but careful to be considerate, slow enough to savor.

He shivers when Aymeric’s hand brushes the unmarred skin of his left pectoral, traces the shelf of his collarbone.

“The oil is growing cold,” Aymeric reminds him.

“Ah, right.”

It takes a bit of adjusting to align them both correctly. Though experienced as they are, Estinien’s lack of sensation from the prosthetic always requires just a bit more time to navigate around. He does his best to breach him slowly, letting his weight sink onto him, their bodies pressing heavily into the mattress. Still hazy from all the wine, Aymeric’s gentle hands turn into gripping claws as he encourages Estinien to push deeper.

Finally, joined to the hilt, Aymeric releases the breath he didn't know he had been holding.

Estinien remains still for a time, letting Aymeric decide when he ought to move-- and once he shifts and groans aloud, he takes that as his cue, starting a leisurely pace which draws his Lord's voice out in swears and wordless moans. The blush of his cheeks has bloomed to his ears and chest; Estinien can't help but ghost his lips over the flushed skin, burying himself in his neck.

He's so distracted that he doesn’t hear the sound of a door shutting, nor the clink of bottles as spirits and water are poured into one of several glasses. It's only when the bed dips slightly and he feels something fuzzy brush against his arm does he realize that Az'a has joined them.

Aymeric, with eyes rolled shut and head tipped back, has yet to notice-- at least not until Az'a smothers a moan by covering Aymeric's parted lips with his own, scooting to pillow his head on a towel-clad lap. His eyes are clouded when he opens them, pupils so wide they're almost as black as his partners’, and when he tries to speak Estinien angles his thrusts in just the right way to choke the voice from him.

Az'a chuckles at his needy sounds, pressing the rim of his drink to Aymeric's lips. “For you, my Lord,” he offers.

As he tips back the glass, Aymeric drinks greedily, a little desperately-- soon whimpering as he's unable to catch his breath, pawing at Az'a’s thighs for something stable to cling to. When at last he lowers the drink, Aymeric coughs and gasps, some of the milky liquor dripping from his lips; but he’s hardly distressed, craning back his neck to seek more of Az'a's touch.

Carding a hand through his hair, Az'a remarks, “Rather needy, isn't he?”

“Perhaps a bit,” Estinien replies, having to keep a steady hand on his hips to maintain their agonizing tempo.

“Do you think he'll survive us both?”

“Depends on how much drink you keep giving him.”

Az'a laughs, finishing off what remains in the glass. “No more, I promise! You and I shall share the rest.”

“You mean  _ I _ shall. You hardly need it, and I paced myself at the gala for a reason.”

“ _ Paced _ yourself,” Az'a scoffs. “As if you ever cared for wine in the first place.”

A grin tugging at his lips, Estinien pulls Az'a in for a kiss, tasting the ghost of bitter anise. But knowing where to find more of the flavour, he soon drops down to Aymeric instead, licking away the rivulets that had spilled from his mouth.

It’s all a bit too much. Aymeric makes his anguish known by nipping sharply at Estinien's ear, arms winding their way across his shoulders and clinging tightly. Finally he lets their pace quicken, even slipping a hand between their bodies to tug at Aymeric’s spit-slicked member.

With cries of gratitude and elation he feels his climax approaching swiftly, back arching to Az'a’s wandering hands upon his chest, hips stuttering to keep pace with Estinien’s. It's liable that he would’ve lasted longer if not for all the drink, but it doesn't seem to be of much concern to his partners. They help him ride it out with joint affections, Az’a uttering soft encouragements, Estinien’s devout mouth at his throat.

Once spent-- at least for the time being-- Estinien releases his cock and slides out of him with a downright filthy sound. Parting with one last kiss to his dazed lips, he rises, eager to move on to their next phase.

“My turn?” Az’a asks hopefully.

Estinien wipes his hands on a washcloth Az’a had draped over the back of a nearby chair. Unbuckling his harness and setting it on the table to deal with later, he says, “Give him a moment, but yes.”

His smile is as wicked as his reputation; their loving, feral creature. Curling over to kiss Aymeric’s forehead, he moves him as delicately as he would a porcelain doll as he lays his head back on the pillows. Now free to take Estinien’s place, his tail sways contemplatively as Aymeric reaches up to clasp his cheeks, his head nuzzling against his left palm.

Feline eyes half-lidded, he asks, “Shall you have me next, my Lord?”

Aymeric’s voice is scratchy with overuse when he answers, “Yes, please.”

His honesty brings a smile to Az'a’s face, inspiring him to kiss Aymeric's cheeks, his eyelids, the tip of his nose. Laying with their bodies flush together, his freshly washed fur is luxuriously soft and noticeably dry-- that's what must have taken so long.

Aymeric contends himself with simply petting him for a time, trading chaste kisses, letting his body warm back up to arousal while Estinien pours himself yet another glass of araq.

But Az'a's patience is a fickle thing, there in abundance one moment and all but vanished the next. He soon busies himself with nipping at Aymeric's earring, tracing a line down the column of his neck, grazing his fangs across the very center of his throat.

“All ours, aren't you,” he whispers, voice as smooth and words as sharp as a freshly oiled blade. Aymeric shivers under the edge of them. “Did you enjoy yourself at the gala?”

“I did.”

“Do you still recall with whom you spoke?”

“I--” it takes him a moment to pull up the memories, the pink of Serendipity’s hair, H'naaza's ever-present goggles, Mylla's exuberance for discussing weaponry-- among dozens of others, though many are far too hazy to recall. “I do. Sort of.”

“You do?” Az'a asks, then chuckles lowly. “My, my, and here I thought you had done the job without me, Estinien.”

“I gave it a fair shot,” Estinien insists, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

“Once more should do the trick.”

Az'a turns his silver tongue to other matters then, tangling it with Aymeric's, drinking in his soft noises of surprise as Az'a's claws drag down his chest. He feels the tickle of cloth falling over his legs as the towel finally comes loose, knocked aside by an expressive tail.

“Don't get too used to that,” Estinien warns, tugging on one of Az'a's ears. “I have other plans.”

They break apart with a soft laugh, Az'a asking “Do you?”

“I've been patient, but I'm still owed my dues.”

“Ah. Don't let me keep you, then.”

Estinien sets his latest glass on the nightstand and picks up a shift of some membranous material, handing both it and the decanter to Az'a. They'd left out three of the coverings just in case, with more in the chest-- such scrubbed, treated and dried aldgoat intestines provide vital protection from Az'a's barbs, a bit of brilliant engineering from the miqo'te of yore.

Covering now tied in place and slickened, Az'a sits back on his haunches, scraping his claws down Aymeric's abdomen. They come to rest in the hollow of his hips and pull his body down until he’s settled on Az'a’s lap, who purrs appreciatively for the work that's been done to open him. But Aymeric's vision is soon eclipsed once Estinien guides his face away, a hand cupping his jaw and pulling him into another deep kiss.

He jolts when he feels Az'a's fingers swipe across his entrance.

When freed of Estinien's mouth, he catches onto his intent-- and it take only a bit of straining and a few moments of shuffling for Aymeric’s lips to find the skin of his inner thighs, doting affection and enthusiasm wherever he can reach.

“Greedy,” he hears Az'a complain. “I can't believe you're going to steal that lovely voice from me.”

“First come, first serve,” Estinien replies.

He straddles Aymeric's head, still too far raised for him to reach, and faces Az'a-- who he brings close once more. Aymeric’s hands find purchase on Estinien’s waist as Az'a begins to press inside, moaning aloud for the relief of being filled again, his breath hot on Estinien's folds.

Placing a chilly hand over Aymeric's, Estinien starts to lower himself in increments-- slow and halting but urged on by tugging hands, encouraging kisses. His outer lips are already slick and Aymeric finds him as warm as spring inside. Trying not to grin too widely when Estinien twitches above him, he laps slowly, body seeming to sing in pleasure as Az'a comes to rest within him. Though not quite as long nor as thick as Estinien's favourite toys, he's warm and pulsing, and more than enough to still satisfy that sweetest spot.

His pleasure no longer unravels like a coil of fire but instead shoots from the soles of his feet all the way to the tips of his fingers, jolts of electricity that seem to set his blood alight. Digging a heel into Az'a's back is the best he can do to spur him on, though he hardly needs the encouragement-- Az'a has always preferred to take him with the force of a storm, no rhythm except for the hunger of lust. Unable to do much more than ride his rapture out, he devotes himself to attending his own task, locking his hands over Estinien's thighs to pin him down and keep him just as still.

His reward is a broken cry from above. Estinien so rarely makes a noise without trying to muffle his voice; and, clearly embarrassed, his next moans barely escape from behind his palm. But Az'a lifts a hand of his own to pry it away, weaving their fingers together as he leans in to nuzzle his neck.

“Such a sweet sound,” he coos, kissing the thrum of Estinien's racing pulse. A purr rumbles from so deep within his chest that Aymeric can feel it where their bodies join.

Estinien hisses a breath from between his teeth. No matter how reticent he can be when it comes to other matters, his tells are always so clear during sex-- from the clench of his walls to the scrape of his nails, Aymeric knows he’s coming to the edge of climax.

It inspires him to double his efforts. Having to fight against his own dizzying pleasure he buries himself in his warmth, drinking from him as if he were spilling ambrosia sweeter than any wine. Above, Az'a slows his thrusts to focus on Estinien’s needs, catching hungry lips with his own so that his purring now shook within all of them.

He breaks over the apex of euphoria shortly after. Voice wavering with unrestrained moans, his body locks and fingers curl as release wracks his frame, Aymeric’s tongue still swirling over his pulsing clit. Az'a does little to quiet him, smiling against the scars of his breast while groping hands keep him balanced upright, Estinien's thighs shaking such that they could collapse at any moment. He always flushes such a pretty shade of red in his afterglow, dark eyes dazed and hazy and Aymeric is only slightly remorse that he cannot see him.

But he's not given long to dwell on sights missed. Az'a’s hand closes around his cock, making his eyes roll and thighs clench. When Estinien moves off of him even the dim candlelight feels entirely too bright, and Az’a seems to be almost haloed by its glow, dark tresses spilling across his ghostly shoulders like a curtain of oil. His callused hands demand legs to open and bodies to still, pinning him down, taking him fast--

Aymeric reaches for him urgently and Az’a meets him halfway, leaning in to be pulled down and held tight. As he lavishes affection on Aymeric's cheeks, his throat, his pinned-back ears, Aymeric cries aloud-- though his voice is hardly more than a whisper for all its use.

“G-Gods,” he prays, breathless; “Please, I…  _ Twelve _ , I need--”

“The Twelve aren’t the ones you should beg, my love. Who do you need?”

“ _ Az’a, _ ” he cries at last.

Az'a rewards him with a bite to the neck, fangs breaking his skin. His claws leave raised trails as he lifts his hips further, searching for better purchase, driving himself deeper. It’s mindless and feral and so achingly  _ good _ that Aymeric soon finds himself teetering on the brink of of his second climax within the hour.

But all the harshness in the world cannot compare to the way he shudders when Az'a says, “I love you so.”

Clutching him so tightly that he's sure his fingers will leave bruises, Aymeric is forced to ride over the brink of orgasm, wholly unable to delay it any longer. He gasps and shudders as it hits him hard, rolling his hips, rutting into Az'a's fist-- he's dimly aware of Estinien's hands smoothing back his hair as he falls apart.

And with his body clenching so tightly around him, it only takes a few short thrusts for Az'a to follow suit. His fangs re-find purchase in the holes already made, tasting sweet blood on his tongue as his body tenses and spills into the shift.

A pause is needed for their joint aftershocks to fade-- for Az'a’s claws to relax and Aymeric's breath to return. But once his member slips free and he begins to untie the loose thread keeping the covering on, Az'a catches Estinien’s eyes and leans across Aymeric's spent body to kiss him.

“I love you, too,” he affirms. Estinien hums pleasantly against his lips.

They need only glance at Aymeric's drained body to mutually decide they'll let him rest. Az'a rises to toss away the seed-filled sheath before collecting the washcloth, Estinien's harness and a small washroom bucket with which to clean up. But noticing the way he sways on trembling legs, Estinien decides to assist-- taking the items from him and ushering him back to the bed.

“Rest,” he commands. “I've got this.”

After a few tired blinks and some grumbling, Az'a relents.

He doesn't intend to sleep so quickly, but once he's curled up beside his Lord with the smell of sex and spirits lingering heavy in the air, a heavy arm draped across his waist, his body decides that it has had more than enough.

Darkness takes them both before Estinien even runs the water.

* * *

 

The storm yields as morning comes.

Without curtains, light creeps in unabated. Gulls call to hearken the day, ship bells tolling faintly in the distance. The sky is still peach pink and dusty blue but the city is waking and so, too, must the Ishgardians.

“Lord Spea-ker,” Estinien trills in a playfully singsong voice, wrapping an arm around Aymeric's chest from behind. His breath is warm and ticklish on bare skin, and Aymeric makes a soft noise of protest, curling into a tighter ball.

Estinien only chuckles. “Time to get up.”

“Nn.”

“Being lazy, are we?” He teases, closing his eyes and placing a contented kiss to the crook of his Lord's shoulder. “You're going to suffocate Az'a at this rate.”

Muffled by both Aymeric's body and the mattress his cheek is squished into, Az'a says “This is how I'd want to go.”

“I should've known.”

“Quite the role-reversal though, isn't it?” Az'a asks once he's in a better position to, shuffling onto his side and nuzzling under Aymeric's chin. His hand brushes Estinien's, who twines their fingers together loosely. “Usually he's the one forcing us up and out of bed.”

“Honestly, I could get used to it.”

Aymeric's voice is as rough as sandstone when he declares “My head is pounding.”

“Must be all the drink,” Estinien notes unhelpfully, as if a headache of his own wasn't blooming behind his eyes. “I'll fetch some water and--”

“No,” Aymeric says, and he stills, curious. “I mean-- stay, please. I don't want to move just yet.”

“It's only going to get worse.”

His only response is a noise of frustration, grip tightening on Az'a's body. But his childish protests fall on uncaring ears-- his partners trading smiles while Estinien slides from their bed anyway, disappearing off into the seemingly vast expanse outside of their blankets. When he returns it's with two glasses of water, one which he presses against Aymeric’s cheek until he struggles awake, the other he sips before handing to Az’a. His own hurts can wait.

Though he does lean heavy into Az’a’s hand once he rises enough scratch behind his ears.

“Thank you, azizam. It’s times like this when I wish I bothered learning any white magic.”

“It doesn’t help anyway. Not if the younger chirurgeons are to be believed.”

He scoffs. “Some worthy profession, then…”

Glancing at his Lord, Estinien doesn’t miss how Aymeric reaches up to soothe his aching neck and seems surprised by the gauze affixed to it. “I told you I’d take care of things last night,” he reminds him. “It was a clean bite, but I didn’t think leaving it to bleed all over the sheets would’ve been a good idea. We’ve left enough for the maids to clean as it is.”

“Ah… I see,” Aymeric sighs. “I’m sorry that you had to--”

“I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

“I should have been more help.”

Rolling his eyes, Estinien states “You did plenty enough for us last night, and every night before. Let us take care of you from time to time.”

Az'a nods in agreement, adding “It makes us happy. Not only as a service to our Lord, but as your partners.” And it's hard for Aymeric to argue with much of anything when his furry body is curled so pleasantly in the crook of his arm, his tail brushing against Aymeric’s thighs.

Giving Az'a's waist a squeeze, Aymeric meets Estinien's dark eyes before smiling, sheepish. “Thank you. Both of you.”

Estinien braces an arm on the bed, leans in and kisses him sweetly. When he moves back he notices the remaining, unused shifts still laying on the bedside table. A gleam sparks to life in his eyes.

“You know, there is one hangover cure they do swear by…”

And though the skies were fair and travel promised to be light, their caravans were not seen departing until well into the afternoon.


End file.
